Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Riccar. A love story.

Oh sure, you knowledgeable consumers feel very smug right now. You probably own a Dyson and think you know alllll about pivoting, filtration and suction, but do you? Do you really? I think not.

I met Riccar, tall, shiny, black and chrome-y, two years ago. I had finally given up on my blue Eureka and dragged her down to a local vacuum repair shop. The nice old guy behind the counter (who drove a sweet, sweet Lexus, proving I am DEFINITELY in the wrong business) took one look at Eureka and said, it'd be cheaper to buy a new one than to fix this one. And that is when he presented me with Riccar. Made in America, commercial-grade quality, 2-year warranty and all this for 80 bucks. Done and done. You may kiss the bride.

Cut to this week. Riccar had been laboring for several weeks to suck up the smallest dirty hairball tumbleweeds on my kitchen rugs. I tried everything I knew; I used two different bent coat-hangers. The clog was invisible or unreachable. Riccar finally gasped to a halt. Click, nothing. Click, nothing. After several agonizing moments of rending my shirt and yelling at the sky, I decided: It was time for professional intervention.

Enter Super Chipper Gay Man and his Riccar Repair Shop of Joy. He told me over the phone how to diagnose a clog. It is NOT as easy as it sounds. This man is a miracle worker. I drove straight over. He had Riccar for three long, long, dirty floor days. Today, he showed me all the lovely things he'd done. Riccar has a new belt, new filters, a new bag, and new clutch pads. I wish I had some damned new clutch pads! I don't even know what the hell they are but I want some installed, right now. He'd even replaced a lost screw and buffed Riccar to a shiny gloss. Then, he showed me how Riccar was back to dirt-sucking glory by demonstrating on a carpet sample. A second honeymoon, starting today.

I came home and immediately called my bestie. "What's up," she asked. I said, "can you handle this? Listen!" and turned Riccar on. Ow ow! Up and running! I did the main floor and then upstairs in no time flat. Oh the sweet joy of unfettered sweeping.

Don't reach for that coffee stir to jab your eyeballs out quite yet, dear friends. I know you might think this post proves I'm a total domestic goddess, but rest assured, I'm totally NOT. At all. In any way. I burn dinner at least once a week whether I need to or not, frequently kill The Man's dry-clean-only pants, and forget to feed my dog on occasion. I also do NOT vacuum in heels. Well, not unless Riccar asks nicely.

Vacuuming is just a neurosis of mine. Just one of maaaaany, friends, one of many.

Comments, questions, love with an appliance of your own?

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